


cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves

by dioscorea



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscorea/pseuds/dioscorea
Summary: GQ may be new to this whole having a coffee shop thing, but he's pretty sure most cafe regulars aren't like these.Or: GQ finds his way to the Squad on a route that involves a lot of confusion, an unlikely friendship with a woman wielding a baseball bat, and someone living in the sewer that won't stop stealing his pumpkin spice lattes.
Relationships: GQ Edwards & Harleen Quinzel, GQ Edwards & Rick Flag, GQ Edwards/Waylon Jones
Comments: 29
Kudos: 128





	cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, listen - LISTen - I'm disappointed in myself for this too, okay, I just want to be super clear about that. ~~even if this is the least coffee filled coffee shop au to ever coffee shop au, Amanda, what are you DOING~~
> 
> Today's thank you and apology goes out to susiecarter. Pumpkin! Spice! Lattes!! <3
> 
> This plays fast and loose with the canon timeline and details of the final battle, as a heads up.

He doesn't spare the noise a second thought when it starts. It's a low rumbling, almost soothing in the way it rolls together. It picks up fast, crashing into a single swell, and half a dozen hands reach out to secure half a dozen cups that are now rattling on their tables. GQ pauses, waiting for the girl in front of him to focus her attention back from the wall of windows showcasing the squadron of low-flying Chinook helicopters as they pass by. She finally turns, looking at him like he holds the answers. He smiles.

"That'll be $5.75. Is whole milk okay?" In the distance there's a muted explosion followed by faint but rapid gunfire. The girl turns away again to stare out the window, and GQ sighs.

He really hates this city sometimes.

Midway City wasn't bad in the beginning, for what it was. The perfect place for people who wanted to live normally—by today's standards—and go about their lives unhindered by superpowered beings and the super-assholes who always seemed to follow. Not as untouchably pristine as Metropolis; not as unbearably shitty as Gotham. Real estate was half-decently priced and public transit actually worked, but there was really only one thing GQ considered before going all in.

There was no water.

He was one year and three weeks out from his last mission as a SEAL. One year and three weeks out from the mission that should have gone smoothly, but instead ended with 2 SEALs dead and GQ as the scapegoat when his superiors threw him under the bus, using his penchant for asking questions and thinking outside the box to hide their shitty half-assed plan, putting him on leave to 'recuperate' while they hid in their offices.

He had hung around base for awhile, waiting for his forced leave to be up. But sixty days turned into ninety days turned into six months, and it was clear that command had no intention of letting him back in. He hates how long it took him to realize his temporary replacement was always intended to be his permanent one, someone more willing to follow plans blindly and quietly. He let communication between him and his former teammates die off, anger and frustration overwhelming him. His apartment, once prized for its unobstructed view of the ocean, felt like a cruel joke. He refused to give his former superiors the satisfaction of leaving the SEALs, but he was tired of the stalemate. No one had paid any attention to him in a long time, and he pulled at the shackles, headed as far inland as he could. Nothing happened. He pushed that anger down too; grabbed the first decent apartment he found, and called it a day.

It wasn’t until a couple weeks later that he started at the cafe. He had come to know the owner from going in every morning, and when the guy found out he lived upstairs he had offered the job on the spot, waving off GQ’s protests about having zero experience, claiming he had the ‘right look’, whatever that meant. Now, having watched Midway get more and more affected by bizarre villains and their petty fights, he’s pretty sure the guy meant ‘tall and built’, which has admittedly come in handy when the city erupts and there are skittish customers around. Not exactly what he envisioned when he went through training, but helpful nonetheless.

He watches the first couple big fights on the television in the shop, hoping like hell they don't come close. After the first few he was pretty immune to it—though he was clearly an outlier, and customers became fewer as people started spending more time outside of the center of the city, hoping to avoid anything a bad guy might be interested in. That turned out to include the owner, who called GQ one morning saying he'd be in Florida for a while with his sister, and would GQ mind taking over. And now here he is, Navy SEAL, coffee shop more-or-less-owner, and, honestly, kind of bored. Sometimes he finds himself wishing the fighting does come closer, just for an excuse to jump in. He could do some good, here.

Most of the time, though, he just makes oat milk lattes and tries like hell not to think about what he's missing.

Another fight today. This one didn’t even make it to his block, but he’s still standing in an empty cafe, sweeping the floor for the fifth time that afternoon. The food inspectors aren’t going to know what hit them.

"Hi cutie. You're still open, right?"

GQ turns around and sees a short blonde in a ludicrous outfit leaning into the shop, propping the door open with—a _baseball bat_?

He takes too long to respond, and she steps in. "Great! Can I get a coffee? A fancy one." GQ blinks at her, and she bounces a bit on her toes and swings the bat around.

"I don't think—"

The door bangs open and a guy in a skintight red and black suit with, jesus, a _lot_ of small guns, comes in. "Let's go, angel, our ride's coming."

"He's making my drink, though," Baseball Bat protests, and Skintight Suit eyes GQ from where he's still standing motionless in front of the counter.

"Yeah, sure is," he drawls. "Stop harassing the locals, come on." The door opens again before she has a chance to reply, and suddenly there's a dude covered in tattoos, a frowning woman with a goddamn samurai sword, and a dirty guy in a gross coat joining the fray. What the hell. GQ sighs and moves behind the counter. He’s not especially pleased to have this much weaponry in here when he’s unarmed himself, especially when in the hands of a group this weird. But they don't currently seem interested in doing anything beyond wasting his time, so he’s willing to give them the benefit of the hero-or-villain doubt. For the moment.

A tall blonde guy with a HK416 strides into the shop and GQ's shoulders go back automatically. There's no insignia GQ can recognize on his tac gear, but he knows Command when he sees it. The guy frowns. "What the hell are you all doing? You are absolutely not authorized for a pit stop. Waller would need to—"

"Come on, man, we don't need to Voice of God the guy. It's been a long ass day and we're thirsty,” Skintight Suit says. “Just let the man do his job now that we're done ours. It'll be quick," he says, and GQ wonders about their history if Skintight Suit decided to have a change of heart. "Won't it?" There's barely a response beyond an eye roll from the officer.

"Fine. One— _one_ —time."

Unamused Sword walks right back out, and Copious Tattoos only gives the menu a brief glance before following. Skintight Suit swaggers up to the counter, Baseball Bat hanging over his shoulder and excitedly pointing out various things on the menu.

Gross Coat shoves his way between them and the counter. "Flat white," he announces, and throws a lazy thumb over his shoulder. "One red eye, and one of the prissiest drinks you can come up with." There's a cough from behind him. "And one coffee. Black. And small." GQ leans around him slightly, but Officer just looks tiredly resigned. GQ mentally upgrades him to a large.

Baseball Bat is still talking about the menu when he hands her the sweetest caramel chocolate swirl mocha he could bring himself to make. She finally breaks for air and watches placidly as Officer herds the other two men out. She turns and smiles at GQ. "Crazy day, huh?"

He blinks. "Little bit." She's just staring at him, grinning, and somehow he's more on edge now than he was while the actual fight was going on. She holds out a hand and he shakes it warily.

"Harley Quinn. It's an absolute pleasure. Can I get more whipped cream on this? Like, a lot more." She holds a finger out over the cup. It's a solid four inches above the rim. “And can I start a tab?”

He should have just moved to Gotham.

Three weeks later, he's blinking rapidly at his door, but the grinning figure doesn't disappear.

"Hey gorgeous! We're back!" Baseball Bat— _Harley_ , he mentally corrects himself—singsongs, and bounds in, Officer in tow.

"Hi, Harley," he says, and ignores the raised eyebrow this gets from the other man. "Crazy day?"

She laughs. "You bet. Now it's reward time!" GQ has no idea what that means, but Officer sighs. GQ has a feeling he does that a lot. "One like last time, please, with a lot—"

"Of whipped cream, yeah. Sir?" The guy's other eyebrow joins the first. "Black coffee, right?" Officer shifts his weight a bit, but nods.

Harley frowns. "You're so boring, Flag. Liven up a little, there are _choices_ out here."

“Black coffee is a choice,” Flag says. GQ laughs. They both turn to look at him, and he gives a little shrug.

"No friends today, huh," he hedges, starting on the sugary abomination she likes.

"Nah," Harley says, popping her gum. "Didn't need 'em. I mean, Katana's here, but she's too busy pretending to be too serious for caffeine."

"That's—she's the one with the, uh. Sword?" God, he can't believe that sentence just came out of his mouth.

"Yep! The Soultaker," she nods seriously. The _Soultaker_ , jesus. Who the fuck are these people.

He hands the drinks over and Harley immediately starts licking the whipped cream off. GQ and Flag both watch her for a minute before sharing a look of sad commiseration. "Say, you ever try any fun flavors around here? Blood orange is really popular now, I bet it would go—hey, what—" she's cut off abruptly as Flag takes her elbow and starts to leave.

"Say goodbye, Harley," Flag says. She throws a wave and a smile towards him before turning back and arguing with Flag.

He watches the news that night, waiting. There's a brief segment on some scientist that went rogue and brought a handful of mercs into a lab to try to take it over. There's no real info on what stopped it, but there is a short clip from someone's cell phone. It's wobbly, unfocused, but even despite that GQ can make out a tall, stoic figure holding a rifle; a short woman with pigtails swinging a bat.

He sits back on the couch. Not a gang after all, then; they're a fucking _tac team_.

He gets up and heads back downstairs, lets himself into the cafe through the back alley door. When he first started working here he would come in late at night and work through various drinks, trying to figure it all out while there was peace and quiet. Now it helps him think, the repetitive motions soothing in the same way stripping and cleaning his rifle used to be, and he knows he won't be sleeping for a while anyway.

He lets himself go through the motions on autopilot, mind turning. Who's insane enough to get the same people he met together as a professional team? This has to be something long planned if people this unstable are together. He's never seen anyone else in a uniform like Flag's; must be their handler. Their only handler? GQ's willing to bet Flag is Special Forces; the guy doesn't seem like he's got much water in him. A guy like that should definitely be able to keep everyone in line, and surely he’s got backup. But he remembers the borderline mayhem that overlaid the first visit; how even when it was just him and Harley her confidence in her agency was like the leash was so thin it didn’t exist. There's a tightening in his chest and he tries to ignore it. It’s probably fine. SEALs, Berets, whatever—Command is Command and they know what they're doing.

Occasionally. ...Very occasionally.

He rubs a hand over his face. What is he even doing thinking about any of this, anyway. He needs to get a fucking grip. He looks down and sighs when realizes he's made four pumpkin spice lattes. No need to waste all of an ingredient on an unnecessary train of thought. He pours three of them out, and takes the last one with him as he heads back outside.

There's an alley behind the cafe that GQ has never really paid attention to beyond noting which door belongs to what store and what the best exit route is. It's full of dumpsters, fire escapes and the occasional homeless person, but right now it feels—off. Nothing appears to have moved, so he scans it again, slower, and this time he notices an open sewer grate. GQ sets his cup down on a dumpster lid and walks over. He cautiously peers into it, but the tunnel is empty, just darkness and the sound of rushing water inside. He moves the grate back in place.

Satisfied it's secure, he heads back to the door. Except—

His coffee is gone.

He whips around, but the alley is empty. He walks the full length of it twice but there's no sign of anyone or his wayward cup. He gives up and goes inside, checking the locks.

What the hell is going on in this city, honestly.

The fighting has been steadily getting closer to the shop, based on the increase in the volume of huge insect wings and gunfire over the last half hour. Everyone ran out of the cafe ages ago, desperate to get away. GQ put on the news to see what the threat is—big ass bugs, today, gross—and decided to take the opportunity to do some furniture rearranging. Suddenly there's a huge crash as glass shatters behind him. He turns just in time to watch Harley land hard on a table before they both topple to the floor. "Hey handsome," she says, wincing. He grabs her bat from where it slid under the counter and walks over.

"Hi, Harley."

She rolls onto her back, heedless of the glass shards around her. "Not sure I like this way of coming in." She raises one leg into the air, rolling her ankle gently, before propping her foot on his hip. "Hey, did you ever try that lavender idea I came up with?"

He rolls his eyes, gently pushing her foot away. "No. I told you I didn't have the syrup for it." He ignores her protests as he reaches a hand down to help her up. "If you ever actually gave me money, I would be able to think about getting some." He pulls her up to her feet. She's looking at him thoughtfully, and he presses the bat into her hands and spins her to face the door. "Time for work. Go get 'em."

Harley doesn't move, just looks at him over her shoulder. "But if you had some, you'd try it, right?"

"Sure," he says, giving up and gently pushing her towards the door. "Help me out and kill those bug things so I have still have a place to make it in."

That, for whatever reason, gets her moving. "Put the window on my tab!" she calls, and disappears back into the fight. GQ sighs, and goes to see what he can scrounge up to board up the window.

There's a single bottle of lavender syrup sitting on his counter the next morning when he comes in. GQ very carefully does not think about how it got there, and slots it in amongst the other bottles on the shelf.

GQ's in the cafe late the next night, deep cleaning the machines. When he finally leaves, the alley is quiet, but that strange feeling is back. This time he doesn't bother looking anywhere else first—and finds the grate wide open.

GQ freezes, thinking. He puts his americano down slowly on top of the dumpster and pulls out his keys, lets himself back inside but leaves the cup where it is. He makes himself take five slow laps around the entire shop and then heads outside again. The cup is still there. Well, worth a shot. He grabs it and almost sloshes it all over himself when he misjudges the force needed; it's much lighter now. He peers inside and sees a decent amount is missing. He'll be goddamned. "Not to your liking, huh," he says quietly to the alley. There's no response. He goes back upstairs, and starts planning.

The bells above the door jingle. He looks up and his jaw almost falls open. It's Flag, and he's alone.

"Sir?" GQ asks, concerned. Flag hesitates before walking forward, and the worry spikes. "Is everything okay?"

Flag looks at him, surprised. "Yeah. Uh. I have—" he trails off. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and frowns at it. "It's—well. I have a list." He holds the paper out and GQ takes it, reads it, and starts laughing.

"They really like your coffee," Flag mutters.

GQ has to wait a minute before he's able to talk again. "No, this is—this is great. This is really cute, actually." He heads over to the machines, drink request list in hand. "Well behaved enough to get a treat, but not enough to come in, huh," he calls over his shoulder. Flag scoffs.

"Shouldn't even have got this," he says.

"Don't worry, sir, I won't let them know you actually like them." He hears Flag muttering behind him and it almost sets him off again.

He brings it all over in a couple trays so Flag doesn't have to try to balance everything. "Here you go, boss." Flag reaches into a pocket again and then seems to remember he's still in his tac gear. He looks briefly uncomfortable, and GQ finds he doesn't really like it. He holds up a hand. "All good, sir. Service member discount."

Flag gives him a considering look. "Figured some stuff out, have you?" GQ shrugs, gives a half smile.

"Enough to guess how Harley became one of my regulars. Plus you, uh. Sort of give it away." Flag's eyebrows shoot up. "Alone they're a gang, but someone active duty makes them more legit."

"That's a lot of blind faith you're putting in someone in khaki holding a gun," Flag says, quiet and pointed. He shrugs again.

"Nah. You're just like all my other commanding officers. Spot you a mile away." Surprise flashes across Flag's face again. Well, in for a penny.

He holds his hand out. "GQ Edwards, Lieutenant, Navy SEALs."

Flag shakes it. "Looking pretty dry for a SEAL, Edwards."

"Long story," he says. "Anyway, say hi to the kids for me. Tell Harley there's no way in hell I'm trying her idea for a cinnamon rose hazelnut macchiato." Flag grimaces but nods, picking up his coffees. "See you soon, I'm sure."

"No need to rub it in, Edwards," Flag mutters, and heads out.

GQ is tired. He's been keeping the cafe open later and later to try to offset the dwindling number of customers that come in during the day, and he's been staying up late doing weird coffee experiments on whoever is in the alley. It took a couple nights for him to realize it, but they only take the coffee if it's the pumpkin spice latte he left the first night; everything else gets left behind with only a sip gone. Finding the cup shifted slightly from where he put it those nights has come to feel like an accusation. Once, the time GQ made Harley’s usual, the cup was knocked over on the ground. GQ got a good laugh out of that one. He must have looked insane, laughing alone in a dark alley. He tries not to think about it.

Now it's late, and he's the kind of tired that brings recklessness with it, pressing on his nerves. He hasn't seen Harley or the squad in awhile and still has no idea who's living in his alley. Time to see if he can change one of those things.

He takes a pumpkin spice latte outside, walks over to the grate. It's closed tonight. He yanks it up, puts the coffee next to it like an offering, and sits down on the ground a couple meters away. And waits.

He has no idea if this is going to work. It could be the wrong day, it could be too late—it could just be too obvious, breaking the carefully followed rules they've inadvertently set.

He's not sure how much time has passed before the darkness in the hole shifts, and GQ holds his breath in anticipation. The head that comes out of the shadows has him holding it for an entirely different reason. A wide, scaly forehead over deep set yellow eyes, broad nose and a wide slit for a mouth, wider than anything GQ has ever seen. The eyes blink, horizontal lids flashing like a cat. GQ stares and doesn't move. The figure in front of him is preternaturally still, waiting with a predatory calmness, for what GQ doesn't know. For him to scream? Run away? _Fuck that,_ he thinks. He's a goddamn Navy SEAL, he can handle unexpected intel changes. Besides, whatever they are, they like his lattes. Good enough for GQ.

"Hey," he says inanely. "Figured I'd introduce myself. Brought you a gift," he says, nodding to the cup. The figure in the sewer doesn't move. "It's the right kind, promise," he says, lips quirking.

The nostrils flare as the figure breathes deep, and they must realize he's telling the truth. They climb out of the tunnel enough to get both arms free as they pick up the cup. GQ watches, captivated, as the shadows part to reveal huge broad shoulders, huge biceps, huge—everything, it seems. No shirt, so he takes in all the skin covered in scales, a dark green that's almost black in the dim light. Jesus. This guy is something else. GQ notices him watching GQ with interest, and feels his face flush.

"So you, uh, like pumpkin spice, huh?"

"It's fine," he rumbles, voice deep as a well.

GQ laughs. The guy looks a little startled. "You can't 'fine' me, man. It's the only one you steal, I think that makes it a favorite." He smiles. "You got a name?"

There's a brief hesitation, like he can't fathom that he's being asked. "Killer Croc," he finally says.

That answers some questions. "GQ. Nice to meet you."

Killer Croc is staring at him intensely. "You ain't scared?" he asks, low and menacing. GQ considers how he's currently sitting near a seemingly enormous killer crocodile man who could probably kill him very quickly and very violently, all because he thought it would be a good idea to meet him. He probably should be more concerned.

"I dunno. You're intimidating, I'll give you that. Are you gonna, like. Trash my shop? Or—eat me?"

That deep breath again. Croc's head tilts slightly. "Not you," he says. Alright, then. GQ can work with that.

"Then we're cool," he says, shrugging. He yawns, Croc still watching him avidly. "I should get going. See you tomorrow?"

Croc looks startled again, but shrugs, and suddenly he's gone, just as quietly as he arrived. That's fucking cool. GQ closes the grate himself, and goes upstairs to bed.

He does see Croc the next night, and the night after that. It becomes a tradition, sitting in the dark with two drinks, waiting for Croc to rise out of the shadows. Sometimes he doesn't come, but GQ stays anyway, dangles his feet down the tunnel and tries to figure out a way to make Harley's latest flavor idea a real drink that people could actually stomach.

But to GQ's surprise, Croc comes more often than not. He's still a little cautious, takes his time coming out to pick up his latte, and he never leaves the tunnel, seemingly content to stand on the ladder the whole time. GQ will ramble at him about the insane customer requests he dealt with that day, or Harley and Skintight Suit—Deadshot, he's really got to start using their actual names—latest post-op drink order circus show.

Sometimes, when it's very late and he's especially tired, he talks about the SEALs.

Croc doesn't say much, but GQ's pretty sure that's just Croc. He's getting better at reading him, though, and every time the scales above his eyes rise disdainfully, or his mouth gives the tiniest quirk, something warm blooms in GQ's chest. So he talks, and Croc drinks, and when his drink is done he disappears, but GQ doesn't mind. He doesn't bother worrying about the feeling of someone else in the alley anymore. It's—nice. GQ likes it.

He's taking the trash out when he realizes his mistake. "Don't move. Keep your hands where I can see them." GQ stills, facing the dumpster. "Give me your wallet," the voice behind him says quietly, but firmly. "One hand only." There's the soft swish-click of a switchblade opening.

GQ doesn't move. He doesn't have anything on him for a weapon; there's a piece of wood close to the top of the dumpster he could try to grab. Would need to get the guy down first; he's close enough for GQ to feel the heat radiating off of him which means GQ's within stabbing range. Although he'd probably slash first instead of stab, so if GQ can get an arm up fast enough it would be to a non-essential area. Get him down, get the wood, get this over with.

"Now. Give it to me."

"Sorry, man," GQ tries, trying to buy more time. "You scared me, okay? I just need a minute."

"You're not getting one. Let's go."

GQ is incandescently furious with himself. He knew someone was in the alley with him from the get go, but he didn't think anything of it because the only people ever out here are him and Croc. And isn't that just great, he thinks, putting himself in this position because he thought it was someone he—a friend.

"Okay, man, okay," he says gently, and slowly reaches one hand down like he's going for a pocket. Instead, he whips it up, fast—the knife comes down hard against the length of his forearm, and he hisses a breath through his teeth at the pain. He knocks the knife out of the man's grip and it clatters to the ground.

But the guy doesn't back off, and they grapple. GQ finally gets a hand around the guy's wrist, twists hard and goes to pull it up between his shoulder blades. He spins them both, and comes up hard against unexpected resistance, and he looks up, startled, to find he's brought them face to face with the hulking figure of Killer Croc.

Croc grabs the guy one-handed by the front of his shirt and lifts him straight off the ground. GQ lets go out of sheer surprise, and watches as Croc brings the mugger close to his face, baring his teeth. The guy actually passes out, and Croc sneers and tosses—literally _tosses_ , holy shit—him down the alley.

"What the fuck," he says breathlessly.

Croc turns back to him. He gives GQ a slow once over, and when he sees the slash on GQ's arm he bares his teeth again, looking at the mugger.

"It's fine," GQ says quickly, holding an arm out. It's the one dripping blood and he lowers it fast, holds it slightly behind himself. "I'm fine. Just—" he trails off, feeling a little stunned. "What are you doing?"

"He hurt you," Croc growls.

"I forced his hand," he argues. "You don't need to watch my back, man. I can protect myself," GQ says.

Croc somehow, impossibly, straightens more. He's towering over GQ now, nothing but sheer solid muscle and smooth scales. "Don't have to," he says, low.

GQ swallows. He can't stop himself from running his eyes back over every inch of Croc now that he can see him. He forces himself to meet his gaze again and tries not to flush at the smugness in Croc's eyes, the easy confidence in his stance. "No," he says quietly. "Doesn’t look like it." He looks down at his arm, the small pool of blood collecting on the ground. He doesn't know much about crocodiles but this can't be easy for Croc, injured prey right in front of him. But Croc doesn't move, doesn't so much as give him a hungry glance. "Thank you," he says belatedly. "For the help. And—you know," he continues, wryly, waving his injured arm a bit, "not eating me."

That does get him a hungry look, but there's something else in it that makes GQ shiver. "Told you," Croc rumbles. "Not gonna eat you."

The flush does happen, this time. "Yeah," GQ says, because what are words. "Okay. I—I'm gonna go dress this." He heads over to the door, Croc following a step behind. Croc stays until GQ's behind the door, and he's no shrinking violet but he can't pretend it doesn't put him at ease, having Croc standing between him and the rest of the world. GQ waits until he hears the grate shifting and presses his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. Jesus Christ. He thought he'd come to this city to wallow and be lonely, and instead there's—this.

Whatever this is.

He forces himself to stop thinking about it, and goes to find some gauze.

GQ kind of regrets spending so much time wishing for some action.

He's been watching the street from in front of his windows for half an hour now as a swarm of purple flying drones makes it way towards him. They've been trying to capture people, but they can only do it by hovering directly over them and dropping a net down in some sort of jokey comic villain move that's frankly embarrassing. This city deserves a better class of criminal.

What the drones _are_ good at is leaving massive amounts of damage in their wake, and GQ's curiosity turns to resignation as he watches them break through doors and windows trying to find their prey. The squad is out in force, taking them down individually where they can. He can't find Katana or Flag, and hopes they're after whatever is controlling it. Harley has made it up to the shop, trailing after a smaller swarm, laughing maniacally as she swings away at them with abandon. But she's too focused on what's in front of her; there's one coming up behind, low, and with a burst of speed it slams into her and she goes down, crashing through the glass.

God damn it. He just got that replaced.

He hears a muted roar, and grins despite himself. Croc's come out to play. This might make up for not doing too much to the mugger. But GQ's not going to let him have all the fun.

He grabs the bat from where Harley dropped it and swings it back just as two drones make it through the window, and with all the force he can muster he swings at one. It sails back through the opening and hits the side of a car, falling to the ground in a heap. He slides under the second one, rolls to his feet and brings the bat down hard, jamming it into the top when the drone on the floor.

"Holy shit," Harley says from the ground. "You got some moves, sugar." Her eyes go wide and she scrambles upright. "He was telling the truth! I can't believe it!"

Another drone comes up and GQ swings at it, sends it back out the window to join it's friend. "What?"

"Flag! I thought he was fucking with me, but he meant it!" She has one hand on her hip now, other hand pointing at him accusingly. "You're a soldier!"

Two more drones are heading their way, and he takes a breath and readies the bat. "Soldiers are army," he corrects. "Also, not really the best time, Harley." Her face goes dark. She looks up and grabs a drone by a leg, slamming it into the ground. She stomps her heel through top and it shatters.

"Nice," GQ says. He flips the bat in his hands, stabs it up into the center of the second one, and stomps that one out too.

He smiles at her, but she looks furious. "What?"

"You didn't tell me!"

"Tell you what?" He asks, bewildered.

"That you're a soldier! You're supposed to tell me things, that's what friends do," she snaps, yanking her bat out of his hands.

"Soldiers are army," he repeats automatically, and has to hold both hands up when she readies it. "Sorry, sorry. You're right, that's what—" he stops. "Oh my god, we're friends," he breathes.

"You're just realizing that _now_?" Harley yells. God, he's going to have to make her so many insane drinks to make up for this.

El Diablo comes in through the smashed window, eyeing the damage around them. "You good?"

"Yeah," GQ sighs. "You got 'em?" Diablo nods.

"Different incoming, now," he warns, and GQ squares his shoulders. The whole group is there within a minute, doing the post-op adrenaline crash chat session that GQ has done himself a thousand times. He needs to clean up. He needs to find Croc. If Croc was out he had to have heard what was going on in the shop, and GQ is anxious about what was going on in the alley. He needs to get out there and make sure he's okay.

Everyone's eyes raise as one to a point over GQ's shoulder, and he hears a tell-tale growl behind him as the gang drops into fight mode in one synchronized motion.

"Whoa, hey, no—" GQ shouts. "He's with me, it's fine, stand down." He gets six disbelieving looks at that. They don't drop their weapons but they also don't move, and right now GQ will take what he can get.

But Croc is still growling, low in his throat. He starts to move towards the group and GQ lunges in front of him, pushes a hand against his chest. He doesn't move him, didn't really think he would, but he stares Croc down, and he can feel it when Croc relents, tension fading slightly under his palm.

"Alright," GQ says. "So." He turns back to the group. He finds himself switching into Lieutenant Edwards effortlessly, like he never left. "Lower your weapons. Let's go." He sees surprise flicker through them, clearly not expecting this facet of him. He channels every bit of authority he has into a pointed stare at Flag. Flag stares back, amusement bleeding through—a lowly lieutenant trying to boss a colonel around, in GQ's _dreams_ —but finally drops his rifle, and everyone else eventually follows suit.

"You wanna tell us something, Edwards?" Deadshot asks uneasily.

He rubs a hand across his jaw. "This is Killer Croc. He's my—" he trails off, looking helplessly at Croc. Croc doesn't say anything, which is just super helpful. He doesn't bother finishing. "Croc, meet Harley and the squad." Croc stays silent, but gives everyone a closer look.

Harley looks between them a couple times, and GQ doesn't think he likes the thoughtful expression she has. "Hey KC," she says, stepping out of the group. She swings her bat gently into his shoulder. That woman has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. "Sorry about wanting to kill you. I like the scales thing you got going on. Looks good on you."

Croc sizes her up. GQ is already stunned that he let Harley get away with that, and watches with interest and no small amount of trepidation. "The weird flavor girl," he finally says.

"You know me!" She claps excitedly. "He talks about me!" She flounces the rest of the way over and leans against GQ. "We're coffee friends, it's _great,_ " she drawls. Croc narrows his eyes, shifting his weight towards them, and she straightens quickly.

"Or you're the coffee friend. That's cool too."

Croc relaxes slightly once she's backed off. He's still tense, though, more than GQ's ever seen him. Harley takes another small step back, and actually tries to make it look casual, which is concerning, but GQ can feel Croc relax a little more. He watches as Croc moves to stand in the spot she was just in, and he's close enough that he would be able to feel the heat coming off of him if there was any to feel. He swallows hard. This is—there's just a lot of unknowns in the room right now, this isn't— _possessive_.

"Well! This was fun. Let's never do it again." He rubs his hands together a little absently. "You guys can see yourselves out, we're gonna—we're gonna go."

"No drinks?" Boomerang asks, flabbergasted. Harley elbows him hard. "What? He makes drinks, princess, and I want one."

"They're _leaving,_ " Harley says, and any gratefulness he was feeling evaporates at the tone of her voice. Christ, he's got to get out of here.

Katana turns and leaves; god, he loves that woman, he really does. Boomerang quickly follows, calling after her. GQ glances over his shoulder at Croc and heads behind the counter.

"Bye, guys! I'll take care of the shop, don't worry!" Harley calls, and he fights against the dread that rushes through him at the thought of what he'll come back to.

He bursts into the alley, heads straight for the sewer. Croc is following him slowly, already looking more at ease. GQ is pacing, adrenaline back with a vengeance.

"That went well," he says. Croc blinks those horizontal lids.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Great. Yeah. Harley is probably dumping every syrup flavor she doesn't like down the sink, though," he says.

GQ startles when a hand grabs his shoulder, holding him in place.

"You okay," Croc repeats.

"Yeah," GQ says after a minute. Croc looks him up and down, does that deep breath he did the night they met. He nods, apparently satisfied, and lets go of GQ. GQ wildly thinks about what would've happened if he said no. "Are you okay?"

Croc shoots him a look. "Can't hurt me," he says. "I'm indestructible."

GQ laughs. "Of course, yeah. My mistake."

"Stop getting into fights," Croc advises. "You're tiny."

"I'm not _tiny_ —"

"Compared to me," Croc says smugly.

" _Everyone_ is, compared to you," GQ mutters. "Whatever. I need to go save what’s left of my shop from Harley."

"They gone?" It's almost a growl, and GQ blinks, confused.

"The squad? They only stick around to bother me, and I'm out here, so. Probably," he guesses. Croc seems pleased at that, hell if GQ knows why. He heads towards the sewer, and GQ thumps his fist against his arm on the way by. He takes a deep breath. Time to go see if there's anything left between the combined destruction of the drones and Harley.

He doesn't think about it until later that night: how Croc had touched him. How GQ had touched _Croc,_ felt those scales against the palm of his hand. He's touched Croc before, but only briefly; a fist bump, brushing hands if he takes the cup from him, poking him once when he got a good retort in. Croc never initiates anything himself, though he doesn't seem to mind the times GQ does. But it wasn't a line they've crossed fully, not until today, and now he can't stop thinking about the feeling of solid muscle under his hand; how easily his shoulder fit in Croc's grip. How easily the rest of GQ would fit in his grip. How easily he could pick GQ up, wide hands on his hips, but instead of throwing him he could press him against the wall, boxing him in.

Fuck. He needs to get a hold of himself. Croc likes his coffee, and maybe his company, and does not need to have GQ imagining this shit every time they're together. They're probably-friends, and that's it.

Unfortunately.

It's possible GQ has grown too immune to the happenings of the city.

He had lain down for a nap, assuming no one would come in the shop and commandeering one of the couches. He woke up with a jerk; he doesn't know how long it's been, but he's clumsy and foggy and based on how dark it is it he guesses it's been a couple of hours. Weird. He didn't think he was that tired.

He sits quietly and listens, tries to figure out what woke him up. There's a couple muted blasts in the distance.

Ah. Midway being Midway.

He forces himself to get up, shakes off the out-of-sorts feeling. He wonders where the squad is. He wonders where Croc is. He hasn't seen him in a couple days. Maybe he'll close early and take a couple drinks out, see if he gets lucky.

There’s a single gunshot, and Harley blows into the shop. He starts to raise a hand hello but pauses, takes in how she's alone and looking more serious than he's ever seen her.

"You need to leave. Now. Let's go," she says in lieu of greeting, and comes up to the counter fast enough to grab him by the arm before he can move.

"What? It's just a fight. Where are you—Harley, stop," he says, pulling against her. Her grip is strong but he's twice her size, and she pulls against him ineffectually while he holds his ground. "What the fuck is going on?"

Outside the windows, he sees what looks like a gooey, char-covered person dead on the street.

"What the hell is that?" He asks. She curses under her breath and pulls harder. GQ still doesn't move, and she turns, exasperated.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes," he answers immediately, and finds it's actually true.

"Then get out, and get away, okay? I have to get back, come on, time's a-wastin'."

He follows her out the door, still confused. "Why don't you just tell me what's going on?"

Outside, he looks around. The sky is dark, and over the top of the skyline he can see a wide, angry green vortex stretching into the sky. That is—not good.

Harley takes off immediately and he runs after her. This is definitely not what she meant when she said to leave, but GQ couldn't give less of a shit. She's winding through side streets and the closer they get to the vortex the more wreckage she dodges, shooting occasionally at distant black figures as she goes.

She ducks behind an abandoned bus. GQ plops down beside her, and the double take he gets when she notices is one for the books. "Can't you listen," she hisses. She peers around the corner and pops back, checking her gun.

"Sorry," he says, and doesn't bother trying to make it sincere. He steps around her, ignoring her protests, and sees the rest of the squad behind cars of their own, hiding from more black figures.

“What are those things?” He asks.

“People,” she says, and pulls him back. “Or used to be. Bad guys either way. Which is why I wanted you to _leave_ ,” she says, and jabs at him with her gun. “But here we are anyway. Don’t do anything stupid. I'm going to need a drink later, and you're the one who has to make it.” She checks around the corner again, and tugs on his arm. He follows her lead, crouching low while they jog over to join the group. No one looks particularly happy to see him, but no one says anything. Small mercies.

The black figures are getting more agitated in their huddle. One breaks out away from them, and Boomerang jumps back from where he was peering out, but it's too late. As one, the huddle breaks, and they swarm towards the cars. Boomerang and Katana break off immediately to take on a smaller group to the left. GQ is still not entirely sure what these things are, but they're making an awful sound and heading straight towards them.

"I need a gun."

Harley turns to stare, blinking owlish eyes at him. "Harley. Give me a gun." She moves in front of him instead, shoots one of the incoming in the face. He grits his teeth in frustration.

A Glock is held in front of him, and he follows the suited arm up to Deadshot's impassive mask. It moves slightly, and he can just imagine the raised eyebrows underneath. He grabs it, checks the magazine, and immediately empties it into the heads of the advancing group of former humans. He ejects it and hands it back.

Deadshot looks over the pile of bodies and then hands a couple more magazines over without a word. GQ sticks one in the gun and the rest in his pockets.

"Our illustrious leader is over there," Deadshot says, jerking his chin towards a pile of destroyed cars. "If you plan on joining the fun." GQ claps him on the shoulder and starts making his way over.

He crouches down next to Flag. "What’s the situation?"

If Flag’s surprised to see him, he doesn’t show it. "An ancient witch goddess and her power source fire brother are using us to destroy half the world for them so they can take over what's left of it."

"Ah, the angry magical tornado. Should have guessed," GQ says. "What do you need?"

"I left an activated bomb below that building earlier," he says, and wow, that is not something GQ is used to hearing from a superior. "If we can use it to take her brother out, your ‘magical tornado’ should disappear, she'll lose a lot of power, and we can work it from there."

"Sounds good, let's go," GQ says. Flag eyes him.

"Not a fight you want, Edwards. It's collapsed and underwater," Flag says, even more serious than he usually is. "Squad is on it," he says. It's uncharacteristically soft, would almost be gentle if it was coming from anyone else. He sees the out for what it is, and it's not that he doesn't appreciate it, especially coming from a guy like Flag.

But god help him, this is his team, and he's not letting them do all the work when he's right here, finally able to help the way he still burns to.

"If it’s underwater, you don't need the squad." GQ replies. "You need me."

GQ splashes down into the bottom of the tunnel. The water is shin deep and cold, and he can hear movement around him, but it doesn’t sound large enough to belong to what he’s looking for.

He clicks on his flashlight. "Croc!" He yells, scaring some nearby rats. He sloshes towards a connection in the tunnel. The water looks deeper to the left, and he moves into it on instinct, bracing against the rolling water that’s now up to his thighs. " _Croc!_ " He yells again.

After a long moment, there’s a shadow moving towards him through the current, and Croc rises out of the water, scaly skin gleaming in the light from his flashlight.

"You lost?" He asks. GQ snorts, and then remembers the world is kind of ending.

"I need to move and then set off a bomb that’s underwater so the Squad can kill some furious witch empress and save the world,” he says, and to Croc’s credit he doesn’t react to that at all. “And there's going to be some bad guys in the way before I even get that far. This is insane, but—would you—I could use some help."

Croc considers him. "Where?"

GQ releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. "City center. Team is assembling in ten. It’ll be tight, but we should make it." Croc starts moving away down the tunnel. "Croc? Ladder’s this way."

"Water's faster," Croc says over his shoulder. He stops and turns back, gives GQ a slow and considering once over. "Think you can keep up?"

GQ grins, baring all his teeth. He pulls his sweater over his head and throws it to the side. "Watch me," he says, and throws himself deeper into the water.

Swimming with Croc is like nothing he's ever felt before.

Croc is fast, and he takes GQ at his word, doesn't coddle him as they traverse the tunnel system. But he stays just close enough that GQ can make him out in the far reaches of his light, and using the current to his advantage he glides behind Croc effortlessly, following his shadow. When it's time for a turn he'll come back to GQ, making little circles around him while he guides GQ where he needs to go, and then he's shooting off in front again. Croc moves like a flowing extension of the water itself, and the speed they're at makes GQ feel like he's flying, clothes and sneakers be damned. _He gets to do this every day,_ GQ thinks, and wonders if living up on land really makes him the lucky one.

It's a real shame this has to end. He'd do it until his body gave out, otherwise.

Croc brings them up through a surface connection and they climb out on the street. GQ can’t remember the last time he’s been this happy while soaking wet and fully clothed. He takes a moment to catch his breath, trying to tamp his grin down. "Well?"

Croc shrugs. "Not bad." GQ rolls his eyes.

"There you are," Harley says, stepping around an overturned car. "Why are you over here? And why are you wet?"

"Brought a friend," GQ says, tilting his head towards Croc.

"KC! Is land not good enough for you or something?" She says.

"Or something," Croc growls. Harley laughs.

"You can swim all you want later. Assuming we're still alive." She grins. "Speaking of! We gotta go; Katana’s almost done pow-wowing with her dead husband."

"Do you ever listen to the things that come out of your mouth?" GQ murmurs as she leads them away.

“What? I’m being a team player. I’m updating you about the team.”

Harley takes them to a subway entrance. The team is indeed waiting in a huddle while Katana has an intense talk with her sword. Deadshot is strapping even more guns to himself and Boomerang is holding a stuffed animal in one hand and an actual boomerang in the other, but what’s most concerning is the sheer indifference Flag and Diablo have towards the entire display. GQ thinks back fondly on the days when his life was normal.

“Boss,” GQ nods at Flag. “We got gear?”

“O2 et al,” Flag says, patting the top of the tank. He looks at Croc for a long moment. Croc crosses his arms and stares back. “I’d warn you that there’s only one set, but something tells me that won’t be a problem,” he says dryly.

“We’re good,” Croc rumbles.

The corner of Flag’s mouth quirks. “Then let’s go. Time to get this show on the road.”

GQ is already mostly changed by the time he leaves. "Okay," he says. "Bomb's in there on the ground. We grab it, move it to a point on the ceiling, wait for word to blow it, and hightail it the fuck out. Anything in our way gets taken out."

He double checks his tank and hoists it on. "My turn to lead. You ready?" Croc walks straight into the water. "I'll take that as a yes," GQ sighs, and follows him into the dark.

They swim unimpeded for awhile, and that more than anything else has GQ on edge. Croc stays much closer than he did earlier, easy movements overlaid with a wariness that GQ can't decide comes from either being in a new place or because of him. But water is water, and they kick past debris and over benches and trash cans easily.

There's movement in the darkness, and suddenly three black figures are bearing down on them. The water and inability to breath gives them no pause, and GQ grabs his knife and slams it into the shoulder of the first one there. It screams in his face, sound warping into a terrible cry under the water. He sees Croc fighting out of the corner of his eye and rips the blade out, jabs it into where a throat would be and pulls down as hard as he can. The cry cuts off and an inky black cloud billows around him. He swims through it, knife already poised to come down again, and his stomach drops out when he sees both figures attached to Croc.

He jabs at the closest one; short, vicious strikes into anything he can reach. Croc lets go of the one at his side to put both hands on the one in front of him, grabs it by the side of the head and and opposite shoulder and just— _pulls,_ and it tears apart in his hands. A black arm wraps around his neck and GQ pauses, frantic, trying to figure out where to cut without hurting Croc.

Croc reaches up himself and grabs it in both hands. "Go," he yells, twisting and turning. GQ doesn't. He heard him just fine, even despite the water, but he doesn't want to—he can't—

Croc yells again, and finally GQ kicks his feet, starts moving down the platform, and resolutely doesn't think about leaving Croc back there alone.

He sees a small, red blinking light in the distance and kicks towards it. Bingo. He grabs the bomb and heads straight up, comes up in an air pocket and gets his bearings. The fighting is thunderous here, and if he listens hard he can hear the squad yelling over the sound of gunfire and a deep, malevolent female voice.

He pushes through the floating debris, pulling himself one handed along the pipes on the ceiling. It's not until he goes to secure the bomb that he really looks at what he's holding, and he freezes, eyes wide.

There's one second left on the timer.

He always assumed he would clock out during a mission. It's never bothered him. You couldn't do what he did without being willing to lose it all, and even the most dangerous missions never gave him pause. It's what made him such a good SEAL—no hesitation, just doing what needed to be done, opening himself fully to what that might bring. And what better way to go, then saving the entire goddamn world? What better team to do it for than the in-fighting, strangely dressed idiot assholes this one was?

His mouth quirks involuntarily. _Trust command to always forget something important,_ he thinks wryly. Officers really are the same everywhere. GQ takes a deep breath, and radios Flag that he's in position. He gets a garbled bit of yelling back, which he figures means they need more time. He briefly thinks about the original shop owner being down here instead. He'd probably have a stroke. He thinks about him meeting Croc, and that almost makes him laugh, but—Croc, oh, _fuck_ —

As if on command, he hears him rise out of the water behind him. He spins wildly, throws himself into Croc's line of sight of the bomb. Even in his panic he's relieved to see him, but the water's deep and he can't see through it and it's freaking him out about what he might be missing. "You okay?" Croc nods, and GQ lets out a breath.

"Just waiting for word. Start heading back, I'll be right behind you." Croc doesn't move, just floats in front of him. "It shouldn't be long," GQ tries. "They're almost in position."

Croc shrugs, water rippling with it. "Fine to wait."

"It's not fine to wait," GQ says, frustrated. "Head out." Croc is starting to look at him like he's trying to figure out the catch, and GQ doesn't know what to do, what to say to get him to move without giving up the game. "You need as much of a head start as you can get, okay? Just trust—"

The rest of his sentence gets cut off when he's unceremoniously yanked underwater by a hand on his tank's strap. He comes up spluttering, ready to ask what the hell that was, but it dies in his throat.

Croc's staring at the bomb, and he looks fucking furious.

"Croc," he says, low. "You need to get the hell out." Croc eyes him, and GQ can see the warning there, but there's no time to heed it. "Listen to me. I'll be fine. But they're almost ready, so you need to leave right fucking now."

Croc looks at him, and at the bomb, and GQ sees the way the scales around his eyes shift and knows what's coming. "Please," he says before Croc can vocalize it. "You had my back before. Let me do this for you." His hand is still wrapped around Croc's wrist from when it pulled him underwater, and he grips it as hard as he can. Croc doesn't look angry, anymore, just—confused, a little stunned. It makes GQ think of the night they met, how he managed to throw Croc for loop after loop.

Flag's voice on the radio cuts into their stare down, and it's time, it's past time, but GQ keeps staring at Croc, refuses to move or close his eyes while he still has the ability to keep them open.

Then Croc suddenly uses GQ's grip against him, pulling him close and spinning them both so it's Croc's back to the bomb, and GQ watches with wide eyes as he reaches one long arm up, and blows it.

Everything goes black.

He blinks his eyes open to an unnecessarily bright room and squeezes them shut again, groaning. He hurts so bad. Why does everything hurt so bad?

"Hi sugar. You back with us?" A cheery voice says. He slits one eye back open. Harley is sitting on his bed, swinging one leg back and forth. Harley's here. Is he dead? He might be dead. "Aw, you think I'd be in heaven with you? That's sweet, if misguided." A hand pats his face. "You're not, though. Too many drinks to still make." He still needs to make drinks? So hell, then. Harley laughs. "Come on, open your eyes again. There's someone here you’ll want to see." Who the hell could he want to see right now?

A low growl comes from the side of his bed. Both his eyes fly open and he tries to sit up. He doesn't get very far, collapsing back with a pained grunt. He manages to turn his head, and there's—there's Croc, in one piece, standing in front of him. Alive.

"What happened," he croaks.

"KC saved you! Brought you up to us, then helped stop the magic machine. He and Deadshot did this throwing-shooting thing, blew it right up. It was very cool," she says proudly. "You should have seen it. Too bad you were, you know, unconscious and all." She folds her hands in her lap, beams up at Croc.

"What's the damage?" His throat is dry as sand; feels like he hasn't spoken in ages. He has no idea how long he was out.

"Concussion, lots of bruising, lots of burns, lots of lacerations. The usual," she lists off, seemingly unconcerned. God, he got 'the usual'. That's a thing that can happen, now. "Not bad for someone who blew himself up." Croc growls again and he grimaces, but turns a steely stare on him. Injured and lying in a bed he has even less chance of intimidating Croc than usual, but that doesn't mean he won't try.

"Give us a minute, okay Harley?" She pouts, but climbs off the bed, squeezes his hand on the way out.

GQ just looks at Croc for a long moment. He's got bandages in a couple places, some angry looking red blisters across his shoulders. GQ imagines they stretch across his back, too close to the heat. But he's there. Breathing.

"Don't do that again," he croaks. Croc does his version of a raised eyebrow. It usually makes him laugh, but right now GQ is not in the mood.

"Orders are orders," Croc says.

"They were not _your_ orders. They were mine, and they were insane anyway, okay? I knew what I was getting myself into. But you didn't, and that was—you were not supposed to be there. You were not supposed to have to make that choice. I just needed you—"

"Yeah," Croc cuts him off, stepping up to the bed's sidebar. "You needed me." He's leaning down over GQ, and GQ knows he should feel intimidated but he just feels better. He doesn't bother pretending it's only because Croc's blocking some of the light.

He breathes as deep as his aching ribs will let him. He can’t pretend this is about coffee, anymore. The warmth of the long nights, the rush every time he stands nearby, the overwhelming relief when he came out of the water, safe. GQ thought it was just him, this pull he felt deep in his chest, but he’s starting to believe that might be wrong about that.

He reaches out carefully and presses down on the corner of a bandage on Croc's forearm where the tape's coming up. He can still feel those arms around him, holding him tightly while the water exploded around them. Taking the brunt of the damage so GQ didn't. Indestructible is right.

"You got me out, huh? Please tell me you didn't carry me in front of the team," he murmurs.

Croc's expression goes smug. "Wasn't hard. You're—"

"Do _not_ finish that sentence," GQ warns.

The door bangs open and Flag and Harley walk in. Harley gets right back on his bed, swatting at Croc when he growls at her. GQ can tell it's mostly for show on both their parts, and tries not to smile. Neither of them should be encouraged.

"Sir," he says. Flag nods at him, but shoots Croc a little nervous look. That's—odd.

"Good to see you awake, Edwards. Nice job down there," he says. Harley pokes him. Croc has stood up straight to stand behind Harley, arms crossed. GQ watches them cautiously; this team up is concerning at best, and terrifying at worst. If he was Flag, he'd be inching towards the door.

Flag shifts his weight under their combined stare. "Have a proposition for you," he says to GQ. "Empty spot on the squad. There's going to be more water missions in the future; we could use someone like you. Not to mention as back up for—" he waves a hand vaguely in Harley's direction. She nods, completely unbothered by the implication. Then she remembers she's being serious and goes back to frowning. "There would be, uh. Better intel sharing," Flag says, and shoots another nervous glance at Croc. GQ blinks. He shifts to look at Croc, and considers this.

"Technically, I'm still in the SEALs," he muses.

"Not a problem," Flag answers immediately. "I spoke with Waller, she'll straighten it out."

"Waller?"

"Voice of God," Harley clarifies. "You should meet her! She's terrible. Croc likes her, though," she says disparagingly. Croc shrugs.

"Speaking of," GQ says, and pauses. He looks at Croc, really looks at him—and considers. He really has missed being in the water. He's willing to bet their base, wherever it is, has a really nice pool. Would definitely be bigger than the sewer.

Fuck it. Croc's followed him this far.

"Here's the thing," he starts again. "I'm really more of a package deal." Harley claps excitedly. Flag rolls his eyes.

"You say that like I'd be surprised," he mutters. He glances again at Croc, and GQ really needs to ask Croc what the hell happened to make _Flag_ act _nervous_. When he looks up at Croc again, his breath hitches at the blatant possessiveness in Croc's eyes as he gazes back.

Jesus. Maybe he doesn't need to ask.

Someone bangs on the door and GQ jumps. Christ, how is this always happening. He's not even in the shop.

"Y'all still in here?" Deadshot calls through the door.

"Come in, we're all decent!" Harley yells back, and gets up to drape herself over him when he walks in the room. He's gonna ask her about that one day, and he's going to make it as drawn out and awkward as possible as payback. It's the least he deserves.

"You done yet? What's the hold up?" Boomerang complains. "The coffee here is complete shit, I need the good stuff." GQ looks at him incredulously.

"Shop's closed," Croc grumbles. He's back at GQ's side, but in front of the bed this time, and blocked off like this with his team arguing around him GQ takes a risk, brushes his knuckles down the back of Croc's arm in thanks.

"Oh my god, you guys are _cute,_ " Harley gushes.

"That's it," GQ says, and jabs a finger at each of them. "Black coffee and black coffee only, forever, for everyone—"

Deadshot grabs Harley around the waist when she tries to launch herself back at GQ, yelling threats over everyone else's protests while Flag herds them all out. She may have seen that, but she missed Croc taking his wrist during all the commotion to put his hand back down, that cool wide hand circling it easily. That warmth is blooming again in GQ's chest. He can do this now. They can both do this. Heat rises in his face as he wonders about how fast he can get the docs to let him out of here. GQ needs to find out what, exactly, fits perfectly in Croc's hands. When Croc looks down at him, grip tightening slightly, that hungry look from that first night is back on his face, and GQ shivers.

Maybe not just black coffee. He can be magnanimous. He’ll throw in some pumpkin spice lattes, too.

**Author's Note:**

> my brain: UGH THE MILITARY PART IS SO UNREALISTIC NO ONE WILL BELIEVE IT  
> me: [looks at the story premise]  
> me: [looks at _word count_ ]  
> me: yeah that's definitely what you should be concerned about
> 
> smh i am just. SO sorry lmao


End file.
